Entanglement
by X6Herbius
Summary: This is my epic novel; Kent Ericsson and Laszlo Coleman are heading towards City 17 when their lives change. Whether it's for better or worse they have yet to find out... Rated T for future violence and some infrequent mild language. Please R&R! :D
1. Prologue

**Blog: Entanglement-fic[dot]blogspot[dot]com**

* * *

**This is the prologue to Entanglement. Full marks of you can guess where my information came from... ;) Thanks to _Super Chocolate Bear_ somewhat for inspiring me to write this. :)**

**This first part is just the background before Half-Life 2, for people to get a better feel of things. I was trying to write this story from a perspective so that even if someone who didn't know about the Half-Life games read it, they'd still be able to understand.**

* * *

**1: Prologue**

The Black Mesa Incident. Everyone knew the name because everybody felt the repercussions. It was the single most catastrophic scientific disaster the world had ever known and it changed the face of human history forever.

Some wonder whether it was some sort of conspiracy. The morning of the fateful experiment that ended up triggering the _Resonance Cascade,_ there was a major system crash in the institute which cut out all formal communication between the Black Mesa personnel. Later on, when the experiment was due to begin, the Anomalous Materials scientists learned that the original test sample they had fetched from _Xen,_ the fascinating inter-dimensional alien borderworld they had discovered through teleportation experiments, was to be replaced with a larger, purer specimen; with the Anti-Mass Spectrometers also overpowered for a more in-depth examination of the sample, which heightened the risk of an overload considerably, the situation was becoming decidedly suspicious. Many of the scientists in the institute housed concerns for this rather special experiment's outcome and rumours began to spread: was the system crash deliberately designed to cause chaos, limit the scientists' communication and mask the fact that the specimen had been switched? Why was the specimen switched in the first place, at such a delicate time? Surely drastic changes like these were beyond the permissions of most of the staff at the institute: what about health and safety? Preliminary precautions? _Common sense?_ Some unconfirmed speculations suggested that a new, mysterious figure was the "mastermind" behind the spontaneous changes, but no-one could say for sure.

No-one, that is, with the possible exception of Gordon Freeman. This one man, the lone being in the fabled test chamber when the disaster occurred, had reason to know slightly more than the average Joe due to his direct involvement with the matters largely at hand. Not only having been in the chamber at the time, Freeman also managed to fight through the entire research institute, defeating alien and human being alike and closing the rift between Earth and the sub-universal borderworld, before suddenly disappearing from the entire scene. No-one could be definite as to what became of him and speculations were wilder still.

Some say he died. This was possible, plausible and frankly the most likely outcome of Freeman's demeanours; naturally, many refused to believe it. Their theory was that the man had escaped somehow and was either stuck far across the universe, marooned on a psychedelic remote alien planet, or still walked the Earth and lived somewhere out of sight of the rest of civilisation. However, due to the long-standing absence of the legendary man in the hazard suit, few guessed close to the truth.

Unsurprisingly, considering the scale of the Black Mesa catastrophe, not many escaped with their lives. Some made it through the ordeal, though strangely enough they were all related in some way to Doctor Freeman. Wallace Breen, Black Mesa's former administrator, Doctor Isaac Kleiner, a prominent scientist, Barney Calhoun, a security guard at the institute, Doctor Arne Magnusson, Doctor Eli Vance and his then two-year-old daughter Alyx all came out alive; some other reports also mentioned that a Doctor Valeria Lector, who attended the same college as Gordon Freeman before applying at Black Mesa, escaped as well.

Of course, with the mix-up in communications and the risks already so high, something was bound to go wrong with the experiment in concern. Unfortunately, however, few people could have predicted _how_ wrong things could actually go and for how long; the repercussions of the Resonance Cascade that was caused by the "rogue test sample" were still being felt almost two decades into the future.

Naturally, as is always the way with the human trademark of utterly insatiable curiosity, the examination experiment went ahead despite the fears of the scientists. Consequently, whether it was planned or otherwise, the extra-pure crystal managed to rip a hole in space time and create an inter-dimensional rift between Earth and the borderworld Xen. Xen itself was in essence an inter-dimensional "subway station" that could be used to cross from one universe to another; its population was a mix of many different creatures from numerous dimensions who had been either willingly or unwillingly transported there.

Many of these "Xenians" decided to take a ride through the inter-dimensional gateway, for the fun of it. The entire research institute became infested with the aliens, randomly teleported into different sectors through the link with Xen; creatures such as the acid-spraying bullsquid and the three-legged, overly vocal houndeye found their places in various areas around the institute. Headcrabs did what was marked on the tin and converged on the heads of any unwary humans they happened to meet, converting the unlucky person into a "zombie" by incorporating parts of their biological workings with the brain of their host. The hapless human they attacked remained alive as the headcrab conducted this process and, as you can imagine, became more than a little distressed as their body was taken over.

In the end, the disaster at Black Mesa was so far gone that the military were called in to nuke the entire facility. However, even with Black Mesa obliterated, Earth was still to receive more than its fair share of the disaster. The _Portal Storms,_ seemingly a side-effect of the Resonance Cascade, provided temporary and rather destructive links between Earth and Xen and spread outside the boundaries of the institute, ensnaring the world with random barrages of Xenians. Headcrabs were teleported into the suburbs; antlions, insect-type creatures each the size of a large dog, appeared all over the countrysides, and an oppressed race of aliens named Vortigaunts, who were hiding out on Xen, saw the portals as an escape route from their pursuers and hitched a ride through to Earth.

To understand the entire story we must backtrack a little. In the Vortigaunts' native universe many of the planets were controlled by the Combine empire; this race of aliens were known by this name because they attempted to hybridize the dominant species of each planet they took over with their own powerful technology, thus creating an army of super-soldiers, of sorts, who were already ideally adapted to their environment. Using this well-perfected technique the Combine launched an attack on the Vortigaunt's home planet and attempted to enslave them; the Vortigaunts, led by Nihilanth who, conversely, was a different being entirely, fought bitterly against their oppressors and fled from planet to planet, evading and battling their persecutors.

Eventually the Vortigaunts reached Xen and, realizing there was nowhere else to turn, awaited their demise. The advent of the Portal Storms, however, provided one last escape route and with their backs against the wall Nihilanth's race decided to take the chance. Unfortunately, the disorganized and panicked fray of humans they met at the other end provided them with little relief. Other alien creatures unceremoniously plucked from their own universe were causing havoc across the globe, and as far as humanity was concerned the Vortigaunts were just as much of a threat. Consequently, many an oppressed alien refugee was mown down in the attempted Xenian eradication that was occurring throughout the entire world. Nevertheless, the Vortigaunts still considered Earth a safer haven than the one they had just left and so proceeded to hide away and bide their time.

Due to the large and unexpected alien influx caused by the Portal Storms, humans moved into the cities. People tended to prefer the safety in numbers and the military defence that the larger population centres had to offer and many were able to lead a close-to-normal lifestyle within these confines. The countless new alien immigrants, therefore, were free to roam all the uninhabited land the world had to offer them and found niches where they could quickly adapt to Earth's ecosystem. Vast networks of antlion tunnels totalling hundreds of miles were formed underneath the Earth's surface and a complicated creature society began to evolve.

The Combine, however, had not been standing idly by while their "prey" escaped. The totalitarians of the Vortigaunts' home universe had been keeping a careful and watchful eye on the rifts created by the Portal Storms and were meticulously planning their next step. They decided to use the inter-dimensional gateways to their advantage: to enslave both the Vortigaunt and human population in one fell swoop, contained entirely on Earth.

With not a moment wasted, the Combine empire began their barrage on the blue planet. They teleported multitudes of troops, forcing the portals wider and wider open; no time was lost in capturing humans and _combining_ them with mechanics to create the trademark super-soldier that was the foundation of the empire. Other machines, aircraft and synth beings were also sent through to Earth to aid the combat and a primary _Citadel_ was established, acting as a "war factory" for the Combine forces. Of course, in the midst of this full-scale war there was the factor of Nihilanth's race: the Vortigaunts, choosing to ally with the humans, sought revenge against their cruel tyrants.

The Combine's next move was to appoint a local Administrator of Earth. Black Mesa's old co-ordinator Wallace Breen was chosen for this role, although it was dubious whether he was given any choice at all in the matter. Breen was "made" optimistic about the Combine's eventual merger with and takeover of the human race and formally surrendered Earth after 7 hours of intense fighting, nicknamed the "7 Hour War" by the human rebels. This was the cue the Combine had been waiting for and, showing no remorse, they quickly and efficiently began a vast demolition campaign on countless numbers of the Earth's population centres. Many a city failed to stand up to the bombardment it received and, like a sinking cargo ship, took its citizens down with it.

Due to the many aliens now having taken over the areas outside the towns, the only people usually going for a walk into the countryside were naïve naturalists hoping to catch a better glimpse of the "beautiful and fascinating" creatures that wouldn't think twice about tearing them apart on first sight. However, the relatively sparse Bill Oddie-esque population of the country was challenged slightly as some people from the destroyed cities attempted to flee from their former abodes. These hardy rebels spread out over the countrysides but life was made extremely difficult by the persistent presence of the less-than-friendly aliens constantly trying to kill them; consequently, only a few groups managed to survive and these set up bases in secure nooks and crannies inaccessible to the countless creatures. Life was helped somewhat by the knowledge of the Vortigaunts who performed their rituals on many a subdued antlion guard, a much larger and substantially more aggressive version of its smaller counterparts, to procure the precious pherapods from the guard's body. These were nicknamed "Bugbait" as the wielder could signal any antlions at his discretion to follow him or attack any object the pherapod was thrown at.

The world's remaining population centres not demolished by the Combine were numbered, for ease of referral, from City 1 to City 17 to City 27 and beyond. A few other Citadels were built in cities around the world and were linked up to a network administrated by the original in City 17. To make their intentions even clearer, as if it were necessary, the Combine also took over the United Nations building in New York which was swiftly destroyed as a symbol to the rest of humanity.

Doctor Breen took residence in the top floor of City 17's Citadel. Whether or not this was the case beforehand, he firmly believed that joining the "Universal Union" by merging with the Combine was a good thing and attempted to convert humanity to the same opinion. After the chaos of the Portal Storms, mankind could and would believe such a tale and many applied to work with the Combine, seeking the better standard of life and rewards that came with the job. The globe's media was controlled and censored by Breen, only being allowed to print as he saw fit and further influencing the perspective of the citizens. The brutal reign of the Combine Overwatch began.

In exchange for their totalitarian power, the Overwatch, the pilot force sent over from the Combine's own universe, promised to protect the humans from the infestation of aliens outside the confines of the cities. Ruling by fear, they and Breen began to eliminate any resistance to the Combine through the use of controlled raids and a "Civil Protection" force made up of the citizens who had agreed to work with them. The Overwatch also attempted to re-enslave the Vortigaunt race, with a moderate success: some of Nihilanth's race were forced, for example, to clean the platforms of the City 17 station.

The Combine's ultimate aim was to convert every man and woman into a stalker; a creature that was not quite human but was used to do its master's bidding. Important minds, however, were experimented on in Nova Prospekt, a former high-security prison, to enable the Combine to get the most knowledge out of humanity possible before destroying it. A suppression field was also enacted to inhibit procreation: certain protein chains important to embryonic development were selectively prevented from forming to ensure that the current generation of humans would be the last.

The citizens' water, branded to be from "Doctor Breen's Private Reserve", was modified to include a biochemical to cause anyone who drank it to slowly forget their past. This was to eradicate the memories from the time before the Combine arrived, to cause mankind to forget why they hated them. Many citizens forgot their purpose in life entirely and proceeded to wander aimlessly around the last of mankind's "safe" havens; conversely, this did mean that no matter what their views on the Combine were beforehand, human rebels could quickly and easily persuade these lost souls to join forces against the oppression. As a final preparation for Earth's new purpose, the Combine began to drain the rivers, seas and oceans of the globe to prepare for new arrivals.

There was one new arrival however, specifically to City 17, that they hadn't counted on; this man would test the Combine Overwatch to their very limits and join a new revolution, the biggest ever, to free the captive Earth...

* * *


	2. Routine Procedure

**2: Routine Procedure**

Out of the sublime darkness came a mysterious hiss of a voice.

"Rise and shine, Mr. Freeman... _Rise and...shine..."_

A pair of glaring, luminescent green eyes loomed out of the blackness as Kent Ericsson turned in his sleep.

"But...my name's not Freeman..."

The figure of a tall, middle-aged man dressed in a pale blue suit and holding a slim briefcase appeared in Kent's mind. His gaunt face with short, crew-cut hair looked taken aback.

"Ah. I wish to offer my, ah..._apologies._ An error in calculations: I have arrived too soon, it seems...I shall ensure the correct sanctions are given. Now...awake from your slumber and remember nothing of me..."

The strange apparition of a man slid back into the pressing darkness, smiling slightly. Kent's body began to stir as he slowly brought himself back to the strong, repetitive rumble of the train wheels and the creaking of the carriages. He opened his eyes.

"Man. What the hell was that about...?"

Kent's companion Laszlo Coleman, sitting on the threadbare blue seat to his right, gave him an inquisitive look.

"Weird dream, huh?"

Kent shook his head slowly. "Yeah, I guess... There was a man and...I can't remember." He looked up. "How long have I been asleep?"

Laszlo looked at his watch. "It's almost six o'clock," he replied. "You've been out since about four thirty."

Kent stared out of the window beside him. There wasn't much to see: the dim light streaming outwards from the inside of the train illuminated a small rectangle filled with the blur of tree trunks and branches. The sun hovered about the horizon, soon to be forced under, the orange rays occasionally peeping through the gaps between the foliage. This, mixed with the gentle tungsten glow embracing them from the carriage ceiling, varnished the whole scene a sleepy quietness broken only by the rhythmic murmur of the metal wheels gliding along the tracks beneath their feet. Kent struggled to recall the name that had been spoken to him in his dream: _Frohman? Freechmen?_ He couldn't be sure. In the end it didn't matter anyway; it was only a dream, and what place did dreams have in today's society?

"When d'you think we'll be arriving at City 17?" Laszlo inquired. "I don't want to keep Alex waiting."

Kent sighed, still looking out of his window. "I dunno," he muttered. "Half an hour, maybe? We must be getting close. The last thing I'd want would be for you to miss your connection tomorrow."

Kent turned to face Laszlo and watched him lean backwards a little more into his chair. He was worried. Was this right, to follow the Combine's orders so mindlessly? Neither of the two men were from the City 17 area and neither had a clue as to what this "Nova Prospekt Centre" might have in store for them. Laszlo was headed there the next morning, and Kent...well, after he'd said goodbye he didn't know what he'd do. Was it alright to send his best friend off on an express into the unknown? Should they have thought this through a little more?

On the other hand, Kent knew that he himself was scared of what might happen if they didn't comply. He'd heard the stories, seen his neighbour's apartments raided and brutally trashed. At least this expedition would provide him with a free ticket through the Combine security, rather that risking the ad-hoc relocation programme countless others were going through. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all. He could work, get a decent job in City 17, see what was left of the beautiful eastern European town. Many people, Kent being one of them, had lost track of the old place names; the few classics like London, New York, Hollywood etcetera stuck in the mind easily, but it had been so long since _names _had been used...everything was just a numerical ID these days.

Kent's eyes roved around the two long rows of parallel seats for the umpteenth time that day. There were a few other people aboard: a dark skinned man and his wife, her brown hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head, were sitting on the chairs opposite him. Another, slightly grey-haired person to Kent's left was cradling an old battered suitcase and a solitary woman sitting at the far left end of the carriage seemingly had nothing. All these people, like Kent and Laszlo, were wearing the same standard citizen uniform: plain brown shoes which were slightly worn, blue denim trousers and a blue-green jacket with the citizen number sewn onto the front and back. The conformity was depressing.

All of a sudden Kent was snapped out of his droll reverie by a loud, piercing screech of brakes as everyone on the train was thrown sideways. The suitcase belonging to the man on his left clattered to the floor; several of the other people were looking round in fright as their train slowly ground to a halt. Kent turned to Laszlo, who appeared just as baffled as he was at what was going on, when out of the blue the single woman at the end of the carriage gave a panicked yell.

"Look out! It's Civil Protection!"

No sooner had she uttered these words than there was a series of persistent bangings on the double doors she was sitting next to. A loud voice, slightly distorted as if spoken through a radio, rang out down the metal carriage.

"Hands in the air, all of you! This is a raid!"

"Shut up 'Mr. Cliché' and get on with the job!"

A second voice, sounding irritated, spoke from the same location as the first. There was a short pause and a mumbled apology before the thin metal doors were unceremoniously prised open to make way for these vocal figures of authority. Kent, obediently raising his arms, observed three figures entering the train: the first two, apparently the ones they had heard talking, were dressed in dark black-grey jackets, green trousers and shiny, jet-black boots. Each held a metal stick, a little over a foot long, with a slightly enlarged glowing fitting at one end and wore silvery metal face plates not dissimilar to gas masks. The third figure following them was larger, clad entirely in a grey armour-like material and sported a shaped, full-head helmet with glaring turquoise eyes. Kent gave a sharp intake of breath as his eyes fell on the sleek, double-barrelled sub-machine gun the soldier was holding; they weren't likely to receive any backchat with _that_ on their side.

_Mr. Clich__é_ spoke again. "This is a Civil Protection spot-check. I want to see all your travelling permits up-front, now. _Don't"_ - his stunstick sparked as he emphasized the word - "try anything."

There was a rush of hands and papers as each of the citizens fetched their tickets. Kent drew his out from his jacket pocket, hoping that Civil Protection wouldn't find anything "wrong" with it, but he couldn't help overhearing the urgent whispered conversation the couple opposite him were holding. The dark-skinned man seemed to have mislaid his permit and both he and his wife were looking extremely worried as the Civil Protection officers advanced further up the train. Kent's silent sympathy was soon cut short, however, by the appearance of _Mr. Clich__é__'s_ friend who was looking down on him like a bleach-wielding housewife on a patch of scum.

"Ticket?" he demanded in the trademark garbled radio voice.

Kent produced the small, official-looking piece of paper. The officer examined it and, seemingly satisfied, stamped a small circle through the upper left corner with a metal plier-like instrument. Handing it back to Kent, he continued along the train and demanded the same from Laszlo, who complied. Much to Kent's relief, this ticket seemed to be legitimate as well and, at a failure to find a fault with the two friends, the officer crossed to the other side of the train carriage to aid Mr. Cliché who was dealing with the less fortunate man and woman.

"I swear to God, we paid for our permits just like everybody else!" The woman was pleading desperately to the first cop who was holding up her husband rather painfully by his right ear as the second approached. He inclined his head inquiringly towards the struggling subject.

"I think we've got ourselves a troublemaker." The first officer smirked as the man's wife began to protest. "Looks like _Mr. Half-Caste_ here was travelling without a permit." The cold metal mask looked ever more ghoulish as the officer spat the insult at the citizen with a malice and the woman became incensed.

"You take your hands _off_ him! I'm telling you, we bought our permits only this morning!"

"What makes you think we'll believe your cock-and-bull stories?" The second cop furiously gripped the woman by the front of her citizen's uniform. There was the tiniest glint of defiance in the in her eyes as she stared straight back into the gaunt, emotionless metal face plate and shoved a piece of paper up at the officer. n"Look, on my ticket! Bought today, half past ten, permit _one of two._ The other one was Gary's."

Mr. Cliché's friend paused for a moment, infusing the air with sarcasm. "And..._that_ constitutes evidence?" he drawled. The woman tried to argue but he shoved a malevolent gloved hand in her face, cutting her off. "I don't think we need to hear any more. We'll be taking your husband off for _questioning..."_ The cop emphasised the word sinisterly and turned to his partner, who nodded and signalled to the armed soldier who had been waiting silently behind them. "But don't worry -"

The cop thrust his masked face into the woman's, who remained unflinching. "We'll be sending him right back on the _very next train..."_

Laughing malignantly, the officer signalled to his companions to leave. With the scapegoat citizen caught in the Combine soldier's iron grip the trio departed from the train into the murky evening, leaving the wretched woman close to tears. As if acting on a last impulse, she ran over to the still open doors and called after her husband.

"Gary! I love you!"

The man and his escort were disappearing into the woods. "I love you too!" he yelled. "Don't worry, Maria darling, I'm gonna be OK!"

From somewhere in the darkness of the dense labyrinth of bare trees a shot sounded, followed by an excruciating scream and an irritated, radio-distorted voice.

"Shut _up!_ Next time it'll be through your _head!"_

Kent's stomach dropped as the doors of the carriage hissed closed and the train began moving again. The distraught woman gave a gasp and burst into tears as the last orange ray of sunlight glittering from between the trees disappeared under the horizon.


	3. An Old Friend

**3: An Old Friend**

The train sped on. Kent watched the inconsolable woman, sitting alone at the other side of the carriage. Outside was pitch black now; he couldn't tell where they were or how far they had come since they had been stopped. He looked at his watch. It was twenty five past six; hopefully City 17 should be but a few minutes away. Still... Try as he might, Kent couldn't shake the gunshot sound from his mind, or the scream that had followed it. One wrong move and both he and Laszlo could be in the same position. He wasn't sure now if they had done the right thing at all: was it stupid, just handing themselves over to the Combine? Neither of them knew what to expect. Laszlo could be willingly submitting himself to a fate worse than that of the unfortunate Gary and Kent would have helped him get there. He didn't know if he could live with that on his conscience.

The sympathetic silence in the carriage was unexpectedly punctured by a cool female voice.

"We will be arriving in City 17 in five minutes, where this train will terminate. Take all your baggage with you as unattended luggage will be immediately destroyed on discovery. Make sure to have your transportation documents on-hand for easy access at the security gates."

Kent glanced up in mild irritation at the solitary loudspeaker bolted to the ceiling in the centre of the carriage. "Huh," he grumbled. "Not even a 'Thank you.'"

No-one else commented. Most of them, if not all, Kent suspected, were keen to depart from the train as quickly as possible and get to wherever they had planned to go. Kent satisfied himself by staring out of the dark window; this was somewhat underwhelming as all he could see was is own, tired reflection staring back at him out of the growing night. He sighed, the fate of the poor citizen still on his mind. Should he have done something about it? No, that was ridiculous. Better just the one human casualty than to get himself involved and undoubtedly become the second. But just standing idly by... The questions circulated endlessly through Kent's mind, riddling him with a strange and ironic case of "survivor's guilt"; what was more, a few specks of water were flung against the black window from the outside as rain began to fall.

Exactly four minutes later the train gently began to slow. A couple of people stirred: Laszlo and the woman at the far end of the carriage stood up from their seats, Laszlo reaching upwards to the baggage rack to retrieve his and Kent's suitcases. Kent, snapping out of his reverie as the suitcase landed at his feet, hauled himself up too and followed Laszlo over to the double doors closest to them. Bringing up the rear was the solitary man, who as of yet had said nothing, and the luggage-less woman from the opposite end; the final passenger however, the woman who had lost her husband, remained in her threadbare chair looking decidedly dejected. Kent exchanged a worried glance with Laszlo but they both remained silent as the now strengthening patter of rain on the train roof was cut off; the line of carriages slid smoothly in between two, rather dirty platforms to mark their long-awaited arrival at the City 17 central station.

The station was rather utilitarian and surprisingly poorly kept. Old food wrappers, take-away boxes, yellowing newspapers and the like were strewn all along the walkways, fluttering in random circles from the persistent, cold breeze. The windows embedded into the angular metal roof above revealed a dark grey, overcast sky and the incessant rain, which was steadily becoming heavier, had found a gap through which to cascade onto the concrete below. The most noticeable thing about the whole area, however, was the large metal screen at the far end of the station which displayed the head and shoulders of a white-haired, brown-suited man. He had a short moustache-come-beard encircling his mouth and was giving some sort of welcome speech to the new arrivals disembarking from the trains, which it looked as though no-one was listening to.

Kent's train gave a groan of brakes as it slowly came to a stop. Through the rain-spattered windows Kent could see three other platforms, empty of transport, and several rubbish-bin-sized metal objects hovering around above the few citizens who were bothering to hang around a train station this late in the evening. He recognized these robotic camcorders: in every urban centre the Combine controlled, these pesky blighters were set loose and had the run of the place. They were nicknamed "City Scanners" because that was what they did: the machines acted as thousands of all-seeing eyes for the Combine Overwatch and monitored every last move of every citizen even bothering to pass through a town or city. Their front face was comprised of four trapezium-like metal plates framing a small, red iris which acted as the lens for the camera inside the device. At the back a lengthy tail protruded from the photo-analysing machinery and helped to stabilize the gizmo when it was in flight. The most irritating part of the scanner, however, was the bright directional spotlight mounted onto the top of the machine: Kent knew when the things were about to take a picture because, along with a quiet whirring sound, the bright light was pointed directly into his face as a flash engulfed him and a freeze frame was taken. Kent didn't doubt that the Combine administration back in his own city had a bountiful library of pictures of him, all in fittingly undignified poses, from every single scanner in the area.

In front of Kent, the train carriage doors hissed rustily open. The woman who had remained seated finally decided to join the rest of the people exiting the train and grabbed the tail end of the line as it dismounted onto the walkway. Kent noticed she still looked as put-out as ever and he didn't blame her; unfortunately, with the surrounding Civil Protection officers on patrol along the station platforms, going over to comfort the woman was out of the question.

Kent trudged slightly gloomily alongside Laszlo as the two of them followed the rest of the group up towards the large broadcasting screen affixed to the far brick wall in front of them. He recognized the notorious face, the trimmed beard, the smarmy authoritarian voice: this was Doctor Breen, the "betrayer of the human race," the _suck-up_ to the Combine, the man who had single-handedly surrendered Earth to the alien forces with not a moment's thought for the rest of mankind. Kent grimaced in irony at the mug of the man smiling sickly down at him from up above. _"Welcome to City 17,"_ he was drawling. _"You have chosen, or been chosen, to relocate to one of our finest remaining urban centres."_

Kent's eyes swept over the untidy floors, graffitied walls and stained windows of the central train station. "Finest, my ass," he muttered under his breath.

The recording, of course, took no notice. Kent fell quiet as he and Laszlo reached the end of the front carriage of their train: to the right he could see the other deserted platforms and an odd alien-like creature at the far end behind a fence, docilely sweeping the floor with a wooden brush. No matter how many times Kent laid eyes on one of these creatures he couldn't quite take them in: this was a Vortigaunt, one of the aliens teleported to Earth through the Portal Storms and pretty much the only species that was not hostile towards humans. Of course, this being the case they were also vulnerable to the Combine and this Vortigaunt was an example of the enslavement that some of the aliens were subjected to: shackled by its head, arms, legs and abdomen, it was being watched over by a Civil Protection officer holding an aggressively lit stunstick.

The Vortigaunts' bodies were curiously shaped, to say the least: their entire, brown-green frame was moulded around a curved spine that ran from the neck down to the abdomen. Two powerful, angular legs ended in hoof-like feet with three clawed toes, and the sweeper's arms were long and sinewy like tree branches, the same earthy brown as the rest of the body. A third small claw protruding from the creature's chest, the function of which Kent could only guess, hung limply downwards in dismay. The head, wide and oval-shaped, served placement for a large, vivid red eye which was pointed at the ground with a stare that was both wise and helpless as Kent observed. He did nurse a slight affection for these creatures, for the way they were so much pore powerful than humans but treated them with so much respect, but even if he had been able to help the unlucky Vortigaunt he couldn't now: for Laszlo was veering off to the left of the platform towards a tall, metal turnstile and Kent, reluctantly, conceded to follow him.

They passed through without incident and in no time at all both Kent and Laszlo were standing, suitcases in hand, looking into the reception-come-waiting area of the train station. It was an "arrivals lounge" of sorts, although it barely qualified for one: the tiled floor and grubby brick walls were speckled with pieces of litter, remains of old posters and flyers, contributing to the depressing atmosphere of disuse. In the centre of the room a small, old building, similar to an information kiosk, was closed and boarded up from what looked like long ago. At the far end of the room four timetables were affixed to the wall, displaying the departing times for the trains in the main station area Kent had just left, and a few large banners with strange geometric designs hung down along the walls in places. It was far from being the prettiest welcoming scene in the world and Kent remembered how Doctor Breen had described City 17: as _"One of our finest remaining urban centres."_ If this was the finest, he'd hate to see what the world's other cities looked like.

A couple of wooden tables and benches were scattered around the room's perimeter and some of these were occupied by citizens and refugees: the table nearest to Kent proved a resting place for a slightly elderly-looking man who appeared fast asleep amongst the general debris of food wrappers and beverage bottles that were abundant around City 17's station. Held loosely in the citizen's relaxed hand was an empty-looking can coloured a plain blue and labelled with an obscured slogan: Kent could make out the ending _te_ of a word and something else: _Reserve? Reservoir?_ From his current angle he couldn't tell for sure but the drink certainly seemed to have had some effect on its consumer. For all Kent knew the man could have been drunk, except for the fact that alcohol was prohibited under Combine rule: whatever was in the blue can was certainly potent stuff and Kent doubted he would be volunteering to try any in a hurry.

Not wishing to hang around the waiting area any more than they needed to, the two friends proceeded past the ancient kiosk into a wide corridor to the right. The space had been separated into a sort of "queueing area" with the use of tall, metal fences but the place was far from crowded now; Kent followed Laszlo along the double-back route and the two arrived a small security gate with a long, thin-looking grey metal train sitting at a platform off to the left. Kent noticed the small sign affixed next to the train: it simply read _Nova Prospekt._ That was obviously the transport Laszlo would need to board the next day and again Kent had his doubts about the excursion: the cold iron prism-like train looked less than inviting and sat almost sinisterly in waiting, ready to take his best friend off into the unknown. Nova Prospekt certainly didn't appear the friendliest place in the world.

The security gate the pair had reached was manned by two more Civil Protection officers. A strangely-shaped metal camera attached to a hinged arm winked down at Kent from an arm on the ceiling and he flinched slightly, blinking the white flashes from his eyes as the first officer spoke.

"Permits," he demanded in the usual distorted voice. Both Kent and Laszlo put down their suitcases and dug into their pockets for their papers. The officers examined them for a few seconds and fed them into an ATM-like machine embedded into the brick wall on the right. It bleeped back affirmatively, keeping the tickets but opening the thin chain-link door behind the officers which Kent and Laszlo gratefully passed through.

After a short walk through a couple of dim, bare corridors, the two men arrived in what looked like a former bank. A series of boarded-up teller kiosks stretched the expanse of the right-hand wall, one of which Kent could see had another strange metal machine bolted to it. The contraption was proving popular as a moderate queue of citizens were waiting behind it; Kent knew what the machine was as he, like so many others, was forced to use it every day. The line of men and women standing in front were hungry and this implement was the only legal way of receiving citizen rations: every so often the contraption would issue a medium-sized grey package from a slot at its base, satisfying the man or woman at the front of the queue. Kent could see from the impatience on the people's faces that this process, like the one he had to endure back at home, was painfully slow. About once every half-minute the food would be issued, deliberately prolonging the citizen's wait, but there was nothing any of them could do about it: their evening meals depended on the co-operation of the metal dispenser.

There were a couple of wooden benches and payphones scattered around the room and some more train timetables situated above the closed teller booths, but again the most noticeable aspect of the area was another large broadcasting screen bolted to the far wall. Doctor Breen was giving another of his speeches: Kent heard a few words about a letter from a citizen asking why the Combine had seen fit to "suppress" the reproductive cycle. He sighed: a lot of people hated the suppression field, set up by the Combine to prohibit human reproduction. Back in the days before the Seven-Hour War, men and women could enjoy their relationships together, but now...well, life was just that little bit more empty. Love was not what it used to be, in addition to the fact that your boy or girlfriend was likely to be carted off by Civil Protection for the slightest misdemeanour. Kent remembered the unfortunate situation of the woman on the train: drastic though it seemed, this kind of scapegoating was occurring wherever the Civil Protection units patrolled.

Kent and Laszlo wandered on into the hall. Above the booths there was a large, angular glass window, black from the night and wet from the persistent rain outside. Several more Civil Protection officers were stationed at various doors around the room and at the single security gate at the bottom, leaving only a left turn at the far end. Proceeding to this exit, Kent realised that the large, brown clock attached to the windows above his head stated that it was almost twenty to seven: his stomach grumbled slightly in protest against the lack of food it had received over the past day, although Kent hardly expected any meal he would eat would completely satisfy the persistent hunger. The quality of cuisine had severely reduced since the Combine had come into power, citizen rations comprised of only the most basic and highly processed foodstuffs. Some speculated whether the Overwatch were employing "starvation tactics"; whether that was the case or not, bland meals were something to be put up with and many were thankful they received any food at all.

Kent and Laszlo proceeded down the final unbarricaded corridor and came across a set of golden brown double doors. Kent pushed them open to find a large courtyard area, the dim scene lit only by street lamps and drenched with rain. There was a wide stone porch in front of the station exit, the roof held up by white pillars, and a set of stairs which led down to a deserted cobbled road. The road encircled what looked like some kind of monument but the statue had been replaced by another broadcasting screen, this one deactivated most likely because of the awful weather. There would have been three lanes leading off from this moderately sized plaza, were it not for the additions of Combine security: two large access gates, the standard blue security fields fizzing across the pathways underneath them, were situated to the far left and end of the courtyard blocking the way for any unauthorised personnel.

However, the most striking building by far on the city's skyline sat squarely in front of Kent's viewpoint. Far in the distance was an enormous imposing tower, a shiny, dark blue in colour, extending up into the overcast skies above. Kent's baggage clattered to the floor as he stood in awe for a few moments: he'd heard about this building but had never seen it himself before. This was the Citadel. Its silhouette was lit up against the murky evening sky, some lights at its base illuminating the monstrous building like a godly monument. The angular tip of the tower was so high that it was obscured by the clouds above, lost in the heights and the rain and the darkness. It reminded Kent of a mountain, except this was not nature's doing: it was a tribute to the Combine's magnificent engineering and technology. Were it not a symbol of the oppression humanity was suffering, Kent would have marvelled at the almost magical aura that the Citadel seemed to subconsciously radiate.

A fair skinned woman from the inside of the station gently pushed past where Kent was stood, a grey package cradled in her arms. As she made a beeline for the left security gate through the downpour, Kent heard her muttering to herself.

"Huh, must be more _tourists._ You'd think the damn building was a gigantic porno screen, the way they ogle at it..."

Tearing his eyes away from the transcendent sight, Kent noticed that Laszlo was also watching the woman oddly as she disappeared through the security gate into the evening. "Yeah..." he said slowly, a look of sarcasm spreading across his face. "Sure are friendly round here, aren't they?"

Kent picked up his fallen luggage and, chuckling to each other, both men exited the station and stepped off the porch onto the wet pavement. The cobbles indicated that right was the only way to go and Kent, noticing the lack of scanners around in the wet weather, was glad to pass up another opportunity of having his photo taken in the certainly undignified act of running for cover through the torrential rain. The pair hurried onwards, trying to spend as little time under the heavens as possible, and arrived underneath a substantial overpass which connected the two buildings either side of the road.

"Where exactly are we meant to be going?" Laszlo enquired as he sheltered in the drier area.

"I think I know where Alex's apartment is" Kent replied, scanning the environment to get his bearings. "He told me to look out for an alleyway just past the station. His place is in block twenty six, flat number ten, which I think " - Kent paused as he spotted a break in the line of buildings further down the road - "is just down there."

Dashing for cover from the rain, the pair took refuge underneath a small metal balcony in the alley Kent had observed. The route was blocked by a small green refuse skip and a chain link fence; making sure no scanners or Civil Protection officers were around, Kent gently shifted the fence to one side so that he and Laszlo could deftly slip past.

They found themselves in a small courtyard enclosed by a number of pale-coloured apartment buildings. A grassy area lay in the centre in which an several children's playground apparatus rusted quietly: some pieces of an oversized Tic-Tac-Toe game seemed to have gone missing and the condition of the playthings carried a heavy feeling of disuse and disrepair. The sight made Kent feel slightly sad as his gaze passed over an old toy doll, one eye and an arm missing from it. Children were an integral part of the world, the next generation of the human race, and so had been eradicated by the Combine through the use of the suppression field: the Universal Union would undoubtedly seem extremely empty without them.

Trying to ignore the weird way the plastic doll seemed to be staring at him, Kent inspected the entrances to the various different buildings. Alex's block was number twenty six and the apartment building to his right seemed to match up with that address. Hurrying out of the rain and into the small porch, he noticed the lack of TLC the place had evidently received: the white paint on the walls was grubby, graffitied and peeling in places and looked less than inviting to the average passer-by. Kent made a mental note to ask Alex about the prospects of redecorating as he pressed the rectangular button on the intercom labelled "Apartment 10".

A few moments passed before a male voice, sounding tinny through the small speaker, said three words.

"Who is it?"

Kent smiled. The familiar tones of his old friend were detectable even through the lame loudspeaker of the crappy intercom system.

"It's Kent Ericsson and Laszlo Coleman," he replied. "We're here to see you, like we arranged."

There was another short pause before Alex spoke again, cautiously. "How do I know it's you?"

"Can't you recognise us?" Kent asked exasperatedly. "I know it's been a while but -"

"I can't be sure, not over this." Alex cut Kent's speech off abruptly. "I'll ask you a question, one that only you'd know." The voice paused for a moment in thought. "What happened to you on your ninth birthday?"

Kent hesitated in slight embarrassment. "Alex, do we really have to go through this?"

"Give me an answer," he insisted.

Kent sighed. "It was when the Portal Storms started. I was in my bedroom reading and a headcrab materialised at the end of my bed and made a jump for me. I told you, it was scary at that age. I barricaded myself in the bathroom for three hours."

The voice at the other end of the intercom gave another moment's thought. "And?"

Kent stood, confused. "I just told you, that's what happened. What, you want my whole life story or something?"

"No," Alex's voice could barely hide a chuckle. "It's just that I recall your mother telling me how you screamed like a girl. I bet you were glad you chose the bathroom to hide in."

Alex's taunt tailed off into laughter as Kent shouted back at the intercom's microphone. "You just wait 'till I get up there, Mr. Smart Guy! I'm gonna give you such a going-over..."

Kent turned around to find Laszlo failing to mask a fit of silent laughter. Feeling appropriately humiliated, he stepped forwards into a dark lobby as the Combine lock on the door buzzed open to grant him access.


	4. Misjudged Prospekt

**4: Misjudged Prospekt**

The scene that met Kent's eyes was dim and, like most of the other areas he had seen in City 17, was comprised of a fair amount of litter. Adjusting to the darker surroundings Kent observed a broken metal elevator in the centre of the room, a couple of planks of wood boarding up the entrance for the residents. Several cardboard boxes and other pieces of rubbish sat in a tiny storage room to the right and this was where the single source of light came from: a slightly flickering fluorescent tube illuminated the walls and floor a harsh blue, sending strange shadows out into the stairwell. Kent, holding his suitcase slightly awkwardly, wished that the elevator was in better condition; as it was, he and Laszlo conceded to climb the four flights of cold concrete stairs to the second storey of the building and came to a stop in front of a grubby wooden door labelled with the number ten.

Kent knocked twice on the door and waited. A moment passed before a carved slot in the centre of the wood was slid cautiously open and a brown eye peered out at the pair of newcomers.

"Ah, good, it's you two." Kent heard what he thought was the release of a padlock and the slotting of some metal bolts before the door creaked open in front of him. In the entrance to the flat stood a man he had not seen for some time: dressed in the same drab, blue citizen's uniform as the rest of the people he had met that day, Kent recognized the patchy hair and constantly grinning, slightly pointed face of one of his oldest friends. He'd met Alexander Nighthawk five years before he'd met Laszlo: the two of them had become friends when Kent and his family had had to flee from their childhood town because of the Combine and alien threats. They'd lived in the same neighbourhood in City 9 for several years after the Seven-Hour War had ended, surviving the best they could against the oppression of Civil Protection and the merger with the Universal Union, until Alex's family had been unexpectedly taken by the Overwatch forces and were never seen again. Alex himself had managed to escape the patrol and in the decade that followed Kent had hardly heard from his friend at all, apart from the occasional rushed call or scrawled letter, until he and Laszlo had needed to make the journey up to City 17 and Alex, over a surprise telephone call, had offered them a room for the night.

"Kent Ericsson. How _nice_ to see you again after all this time." Alex's face was lit up in a humorous sarcasm as Kent gave him an irritated stare.

"You might want to reconsider that after I've finished with you..." Kent nevertheless gave a wry smile and shook Alex warmly by the hand. "How's life?"

"Not too bad," Alex commented as he moved backwards into the apartment, Kent and Laszlo following his suit and closing the front door behind them. "Well, not unless you count the constant battle with aliens from another universe and the end of the world being almost nigh. Whoever this Freeman guy is, I'd like to thank him for taking my existence to these 'new heights'."

Kent gave a chuckle at the predictable satire. It really was impossible to be angry at this guy: all his conversations seemed to be comprised of a constant stream of jokes. He looked around Alex's modest apartment which seemed to have been taken care of better than most other buildings in City 17: the walls were a pale beige, unusually clean compared to the local standard, and sported a golden brown wooden skirting board and picture rail. Carpet was actually present on the floor, coloured a light green, and a domed light fixture above gave out a rather calming orange tungsten glow. Several pieces of furniture, including a bed complete with a clean mattress and soft blankets, sat in the far right of the main room near a single window which displayed the torrent of rain on the outside. To the far left the wall was punctuated by two doorways, possibly leading to separate kitchens and bathrooms, and in the centre of the room was a round wooden table laid out with three sets of plates and cutlery.

"Oh yeah." Alex noticed Kent's gaze resting on the dinner plates. "I was just finishing up today's supper: the glorious and flavoursome processed headcrab." He grinned at the repulsed look on both Kent and Laszlo's faces. "Don't worry, I got it off the rebels' black market. Never eat it unprocessed," he said proverbially, pointing his finger delicately skywards. "The stuff tastes awful unless it's been treated."

"I'll take your word for that." Kent wrinkled his nose slightly at the aroma of roasted meat drifting from the kitchen room to the left.

Alex shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I always like a bit of irony." He grinned again at the knowing look Kent shot him. "Seeing as these damn crabs seem to want to constantly devour _our_ heads, I'm just returning them the favour."

Sniggering, Alex departed from the dining area for a few seconds, returning from the kitchen holding three glasses of a vibrant orange drink. Kent felt slightly elated as he regarded what looked like a fruit juice: this would make a nice change to all the drab _water_ he'd had to drink for the past ten years.

Alex set the glasses beside his guests' places at the table. "This, Monsieurs," he announced as if hosting a grand dinner party, "is the finest orange juice you will find anywhere in City 17, fresh from the black market. I wanted to try to avoid the water the Combine were manufacturing; it's all spiked with biochemicals and other stuff to make you forget why you hate them." Alex sighed, suddenly serious. "I've seen a couple of citizens who've lost their minds from drinking too much of the water. In some other cities it's OK, but anything with 'Doctor Breen's Private Reserve' on it is bad news."

Kent's mind suddenly flashed back to the sleeping citizen in the arrival's lounge of the station. The can he had been holding had been labelled something along the lines of a reserve. _Doctor Breen's Private Reserve._ He knew now how dangerous that water was and what must have happened to the civilian who drank it; it was lucky the water in Kent's home city hadn't been tampered with...at least, as far as he knew...

Kent snapped himself out of his recollection as a microwave-esque ping sounded from the depths of the small kitchen.

"And that'll be the headcrab." Alex gave a satisfied smile as he hurried into the other room. Kent placed his suitcase down by the apartment's door and both he and Laszlo took their places at the table, expectant for the undoubtedly fine cuisine that Alex would produce.

There was a rattle of metal from the kitchenward direction, followed by the closing of an oven door and an unexpected yell of pain from Alex.

"Argh! Damn it!"

A few moments later the full-sized body of a headcrab emerged through the doorway, carried on a wooden chopping board by Alex who was nursing a burnt left thumb. "See, that's the trouble with me," he stated as the slightly steaming headcrab was set down in the centre of the table along with a sharp steak knife. "I forget the basics. Things like 'Be careful Alex, stoves are HOT.'"

Kent chuckled as he examined what would be his dinner. The headcrab in question was just over a foot long: two shiny, blackened claws protruded from the front of the "animal" and a pair of short stumpy legs at the back. On it's underbelly Kent knew there was a nicely head-shaped hole, slightly reddened with blood and surrounded by tiny claws which were used for latching the crab onto its victim's head. These creatures were mostly just annoying but if they managed to attach themselves to your head while you were resting, sleeping or just unwary, life would get a whole lot worse.

Kent noticed Laszlo glance over at the very comfortable-looking bed in the far corner of the room as Alex took his seat at the table. "I see you have enough money to afford blankets on your bed," he smiled. "What are you doing these days to earn that many credits?"

"I've joined up with Civil Protection temporarily," Alex replied. "Just for the extra privileges, you know. Actually, that's a point." He suddenly glanced towards the apartment's door as if he had just remembered something. "I'm expecting a couple of the Metro Cops to come calling for me sometime later this evening. I'll give them an excuse or something but they're not due 'till -"

Alex's explanation was abruptly cut off by a loud knocking at the door. He suddenly looked mortified.

"Crap, they're early!" Alex turned to Kent and handed him the cooked headcrab and knife on the chopping board. "Take this," he whispered, "bring your plates and glasses and go hide in the bathroom. I'll tell you when the coast is clear."

Trying not to make a sound, Kent and Laszlo carefully rose from their seats, gathered their dinner things and crept towards the second doorway on the far wall. Kent was beginning to panic slightly; if they were caught this late in a Civil Protection officer's apartment, with a load of black market food, they'd surely be in for it. All there was to do was take refuge, be silent and hope the cops didn't ask questions.

The two entered the small bathroom which was pitch black. Closing the door behind him Kent decided not to turn the light on, just in case it attracted attention. He could hear Alex beginning his act in the other room.

"Just coming! he called to the unexpected visitors. There was a couple of seconds silence before the sound of an opening door. "Oh. You guys are early."

A different voice spoke, undoubtedly through the Civil Protection radio, which was lower than any Kent had heard that day. "Hey Xan. Yeah, our schedule got moved forward slightly; I wish they'd keep it consistent instead of having us run around every which-way. You coming out for the night shift?"

"No, sorry," Alex apologised. "My schedule got moved, too. I had to help with the morning raids instead, just for today; I've got the letter in my filing cabinet. I see what you mean about erratic shifts."

"You've actually got enough credits for a filing cabinet now?" Kent heard a different cop's voice, sounding slightly amazed. "You must be doing some pretty decent work. Any chance we could see the letter?"

Alex's voice began to hesitate but luckily the first officer cut across him. "Forget it, Lee, we've got to get moving. And Manni, shut that thing up."

Through the brick walls Kent could just about make out the instantly recognisable, insistent bleeping of a city scanner. From the irritated tone of the first Civil Protection officer, it sounded as though the machine was causing them a couple of problems; Kent sat still in the tiled darkness, holding his breath.

"What's up with that thing?" Alex inquired, attempting to be casual.

"It's just a city scanner gone loopy." A third voice, most likely from Manni, sounded exasperated. "It keeps mistaking normal civilians for unregistered troublemakers. I tell you, that thing's been driving us crazy since we first had to deal with it this morning."

A metal clunk, sounding suspiciously like a stunstick colliding with a scanner, came from the direction of the front door and was followed by a couple of indignant bleeps.

"Anyway, I won't keep you any longer Tom." Kent could hear Alex employing diversionary tactics. "I should be back on shift as normal from tomorrow."

"Yeah, sure thing. See you, Xan."

"Will do."

Kent listened to the monotonous trudge of the cops' boots slowly receding down the stairwell. He heaved a sigh of relief. At a couple of points that had been quite close.

The bathroom door opened and Alex poked his slightly stubbled face around the frame. "OK," he assured them. "The coast is clear."

"Xan?" Kent said in slight bewilderment as he and Laszlo climbed from their dark hiding spot. "I've never heard you called that before."

"Well, I'd rather use a name that the other citizens didn't recognise me by," Alex revealed. "That way it's less trouble if I'm referred to in a raid or such like."

"That was a nice bluff though," Laszlo said with a grin. "With all your _acting prowess _you should really go into theatre."

Alex sniggered as he replied. "Well, I would, if there was a theatre left to go into."

The three laughed as they once again took their places at the circular dinner table. Kent set the headcrab, which had cooled somewhat, down in the centre of the table and began to slice it. The aroma was _unusual_ to say the least: a mixture between pork, ham and the seaside type of crab, all rolled into one pesky package. Nevertheless, the food certainly looked fit for eating after having been roasted to what Kent could only guess was perfection.

"So," Alex inquired in a matter-of-fact tone as he unceremoniously hacked off a sizeable chunk of the headcrab's rump. "Maybe I should have asked this earlier but we got a little...well, preoccupied." He grinned, once again, in the slightly sarcastic way Kent had come to associate with him. "What is it you're actually doing up here? That phone call we had a couple of days ago was a little rushed."

"I'm surprised you even remembered my number after all that time," Kent said in slight puzzlement. "After all, the last time we were actually face-to-face was over ten years ago."

"Well, it just goes to show I don't forget about good friends; especially not ones as annoying as you." Alex gave another, somewhat hollow-sounding chuckle as Kent raised one eyebrow.

"Yeah, look who's talking," he said with a provocative smirk. "Anyway, I'm sorry that call we had was hurried, it's just that I was worried about it being monitored."

"Well, you never can tell these days until it's too late." Alex passed the shrinking headcrab carcass onto Laszlo, the pink-brown meat still giving off a slight steam to the cool air. The rain outside the single window overlooking the courtyard continued to fall insistently with even a slightly hypnotic patter. "Since you've managed to come this far without event, I should think we're OK."

"Well, let's hope so." Kent turned his gaze to Laszlo who was seated slightly across the table from him, finishing carving his slice of meat. "Laszlo here received a letter from the Combine about some sort of 'special opportunity'. You know them," he said exasperatedly. "As a bog-standard civilian you hardly get a choice in the matter."

Alex nodded in agreement. "I know what you mean," he acknowledged.

"I think we have the letter with us, actually," Kent said as he turned to his friend. "Laszlo brought it along in his case if I remember rightly."

Yeah, I've got it right here." Laszlo stood up and strode over to the suitcase he had deposited earlier over by the front door. After a few moments searching he pulled out an official-looking envelope, a vibrant yellow logo emblazoned onto the front of it. The symbol looked similar to a geometric, two-pronged spanner, positioned around a single dot that was about the size of a fingernail: this, Kent recognized, was the well-known symbol of Doctor Wallace Breen's administration in conjunction with the Combine Overwatch. The logo reminded him personally of their totalitarian regime, the iron pincers of the Overwatch crushing the spirit of the individual and removing humans one by one from the rest of society.

Shaking this grim and surprisingly political image from his mind, Kent watched Laszlo re-seat himself at the table. Pulling out the letter through a pre-torn gap in the envelope, Laszlo straightened the starched document in front of him and recited the text he had read to himself alone several times before.

_"Dear citizen concerned,_

_Due to the ongoing and prioritized merger with the Universal Union, Earth's new benefactors seek to learn more about the knowledge that humanity has gained throughout its history. For the successful transfer of subjects and the continued co-operation of citizens who are being put toward for the merging process, we require a contribution from the learned ones towards the information store Earth's benefactors keep for the bettering of our own existence. Relating to a recommendation, quoted "The finest mind of his generation", by an anonymous source, you have been selected by the new government federation as a candidate for the Research and Information Collection Facility at the Nova Prospekt Centre..."_

Laszlo's voice tailed off slowly at the look that was given to him. Alex was regarding both him and Kent with a mixture of fear and incredulity, as the piece of headcrab he had raised half way towards his mouth fell back onto his plate with a small thud.

"Did you just say..._Nova Prospekt?"_

"Well, that's what's printed," Laszlo replied. "I even got the ticket in the envelope."

_"Jesus Christ..."_ Kent had never seen Alex in this mood before. His usually jokey manner was gone, replaced by a deadly serious and grave demeanour. His angst was almost fearful to watch and Kent instantly knew that they'd overlooked some aspect of this excursion. Something _big._

"Don't you guys know _anything?_" All at once Alex stood up from his seat, his arms spread wide in exasperation and amazement. "How can you just _agree_ to this? Do you even know what goes on in that hell-hole?"

"Well..." Kent regarded Alex slightly sheepishly. "...no. We're not from around here."

"Well that complicated matters." Alex meant forwards over the table, slamming his palms into contact with the varnished wooden surface. "Listen to me." His eyes were wide, almost in terror, and Kent began to feel very uncomfortable. This was not the Alex he knew. Something must be terribly wrong.

_"You cannot go there."_ Alex spoke to Laszlo in earnest, almost pleading. "Nova Prospekt is not just a research centre. It's a torture house. The Combine are trying to leech all the information they can from the human race before they destroy us. If you take that train tomorrow morning, you'll be kissing your life goodbye. He'll, you'll be practically mooning in its face. You'll be doing exactly what they want you to do, giving yourself in, submitting yourself to things you can't even imagine. As soon as you step onto that express, your life is ended. You're dead. Final." Alex viciously cut through the air with a sweep of his hand. "All you'll have to look froward to is a tiled room and an electric chair before they shove metal in your brain, a plate across your face and wipe your memories. You'll be gone for good."

Both Kent and Laszlo sat still for a few moments, stunned. Kent had suspected something was up, had a few small doubts, but nothing like this. He felt scared, terrified. Their journey had turned out to be one of death. Of course he should have tried to find out something about this _Nova Prospekt_ place beforehand. He was scared of the consequences, of what might happen if they didn't go, but the repercussions of his decision were worse than he could ever have feared. If Alex was right, even killing Laszlo here and now would be a better fate than the one that lay in store for him.

"That's it." Alex straightened up again, suddenly. "There's no doubt about it. You've got to get out of the city tonight. It'll be a while before they notice but when they do, you'll want to be as far away from this place as you can be. I'm afraid your current way of life is over."

"What do you mean?" Kent noticed his puzzled voice betrayed the deep fear he felt.

"Once you disobey the Combine, you're on their black register for good," Alex said in finality. "Either Laszlo goes to Nova Prospekt and you try and live with the guilt, or you run as fast and as far as you can, join up with the rebels and fight against the Combine. I know a friend at a rebel station; the guys there will keep you supplied with decent food and water, even give you weapons."

Alex paused and sighed in despair. "I really feel sorry for you guys, you know," he groaned. "I'm afraid your only purpose now is to fight against the Overwatch, try to prevent as much loss of life as possible."

Kent didn't like the way Alex referred to _"loss of life"_. It was as if it was inevitable, that instead of saving lives they should try not to lose people. His brain felt suddenly saturated with the awful finality of what he had just heard and he struggled to take it all in. Turning to his right, Kent noticed Laszlo had gone deathly white.

"Listen," Alex assured them. "I'll escort you out of this area, put you on a supply train headed for the coast. From there you'll have to fend for yourselves. I'm sorry there's nothing more I can do." Alex sat down carefully, avoiding the appalled looks Kent and Laszlo were giving him. "I might leave my post soon," he continued, "but I need a couple of days to cover my tracks. I may even meet up with you somewhere later on." He gave a grim smile which neither of the others returned.

"Anyway," Alex sighed, attempting to appear slightly more casual, "let's try and finish off the crab."

Kent looked down at the few slices of meat on his plate. They had probably cooled substantially by now. All of a sudden, he didn't feel hungry any more.


	5. Culmination

**5: Culmination**

The moon was full. Whether this had any effect on the the general goings-on of the citizens of City 9 was debatable, but on this particular evening the silver coin that hung low in the sky, casting its opulent resplendence over the scene, appeared inexplicably significant to some of the more superstitious types. What it related to, exactly, they had no idea; just as the man in the dark trench coat had intended.

The man in question was lurking in the shadows at the southerly end of a short street, out of sight of the gentle lunar glow that hung over the deserted roads like a silver mist. He was waiting for a signal, and that signal incidentally was not far off: a mere matter of seconds, to be precise.

The man stood in an anticipation that was not unfounded: this night in particular was rather important. It was the culmination of meticulous planning, convenient accusations and stealthy execution of tasks timed to the pinnacle of perfection. It had taken many months to reach this delicate stage, not to mention numerous counts of investigations and experiments that some could describe as inhuman. But then, inhuman no longer meant anything significant; after all, it would not be an extensive period of time until Earth's population would no longer be considered human anyway. Human was weak. Human was no longer superior. Human needed upgrading and the man knew he was on the verge of discovering the basis of that upgrade, the epitome of power, efficiency and intelligence. The hour of waiting was almost up.

As it happened, it was already over. Exactly on time, as always, the large mechanisms and gears of the City 9 bell tower slotted into place like deadbolts, shifting the hands to exactly eight o'clock. The bell hammer receded and struck, its melancholy lament being just the sound the man in the trench coat had been waiting to hear. Without wasting a moment, he slid from the darkness like the shadow of a cat and had rounded the corner into the street before the second of the eight tolls had sounded.

The man walked briskly. The December air was cold, and the moisture in his breath flared up like an inferno of frost in front of him, but the low temperatures could not force down the urgency of the evening. It was imperative that things went exactly to schedule; the depths of science that the man, and the unfortunate subject that had been chosen for the test, would be diving to were as of yet undiscovered. Tonight was the beginning of the path: what would follow could only be speculated at.

And as a matter of fact, it would transpire quite differently to the way anyone could have predicted. Nevertheless, as the bell tower threw a third metallic shock into the frigid night, the man was not at all aware of the future. Why should he be? The present was the only thing that mattered.

By the time the tower had chimed a fourth time, the man had reached the doorway of only remarkable building on the street. The majority of structures were residential, low-grade and bordering on derelict, the blank windows of countless apartments staring blankly at each other over the void. The lack of attention was clearly apparent: from the frequently stained brickwork, through the litter-scattered floors to the peeling, unlit lobbies. This was where the average civilian lived, in something that could not quite be described as squalour but which was not all that far off.

The one unique building, however, was cleverly designed. It was unique in the fact that it was utterly nondescript: the walls were completely windowless, the concrete frame square and there was not a sign at all that it might have been put there for some use apart from the single small doorway leading onto the street. This indeed housed a door, with no knocker or bell and which had evidently received about as much TLC as had the surrounding apartment buildings: the wood was blistered, unpainted and bore every feature of a place that was no longer cared about.

And this was the entire idea. The door, although stained and weathered, was reinforced behind the wood with an inch of bulletproof alien metal. The concrete walls were each at least two feet thick. The building, although featureless, was connected to every Combine communication network from across the city through an underground intranet of crossover wires and optical signals, and the subterranean links also provided food and growth chemicals for a very important specimen that was kept hidden at all costs, at all times.

It was strange to think how many civilians would walk past this building every day and think nothing of it. Of course, humans never notice things that sit right under their noses if the things concerned are well enough disguised: the Resonance Cascade was undeniable proof of that.

The toll of the bell rang out over the cityscape a fifth, then a sixth time. The man was irritated by this: he was supposed to be rendezvousing with his subject at exactly eight o'clock and already the subject and its escort were late. True, it was only seconds late, but the man knew well that the delay that seconds caused could escalate into hours of spontaneous circumvention and weeks, if not months, of tedious re-planning. Of all the evenings that had passed, this was by far the most critical.

On the eighth and final chime, the man in the trench coat spotted a movement in an alley across the street. He reached into his coat and drew out a large, silenced pistol, a magazine already loaded and ready to fire at the slightest twitch of the trigger. There were strict instructions: no chances were to be taken. If this new arrival was unfortunate enough to be unauthorised, well... The bullet would do the rest. Not a second wasted.

The figure, however, emerged in a recognisable form, much to the man's relief. It was not one person, in fact, but two: the first was a Combine soldier, clad in the deathly black, padded armour that made him practically invisible in so much as the slightest shadow, all apart from the vivid turquoise eyes that remained unblinking throughout the day and night. The second was a citizen, his eyes blindfolded and mouth gagged with two stained and tattered rags tied roughly around his skull. He was not struggling, for it looked as though the soldier's iron grip had taught him a lesson in respect to that futility.

The soldier crossed the deserted road silently, escorting his prisoner and momentarily coming to a stop underneath the glow of a street lamp before a leather-gloved hand shoved him violently out from underneath the orange rays.

_"Stay out of the lights."_

The man's voice was authoritative, barely housing his contempt for this unaccustomed accomplice. No-one, apart from himself, recognised the importance of the occasion. No-one apart from himself could get things perfectly right. This was why the man preferred to work independently in these kind of matters; nevertheless, on this night it was somewhat necessary for an assistant, and this particular soldier had given the man good reason to believe he knew what he was doing.

Replacing the gun inside the thick lining of the coat, the man, after a momentary search, drew out a bizarre-looking instrument about the same size and shape as a standard car key. It looked electronic, the base comprised of black plastic with a silver rod of metal protruding outwards, serrated on both sides with an exact pattern to be recognised by the lock of the door. This key, however, was to be treated with caution: the inner workings relied on a valid fingerprint from the user when the key was turned in its intended lock. This key in particular had been registered to accept the man's prints and the man's prints only, and anyone found to be misusing it would soon find out, to their peril, their grave misjudgement. Electrified taser dart, straight through the heart. Needless to say, the death would be pretty much instant.

Although, in this case, this scale of security was authorised. The man, having inserted his wolf-in-sheep's-clothing into the lock on the door, stood back as the access codes were analysed through its minute electronic terminals. With barely a whisper, a panel in the wall on the left slid open to reveal an iris scanner, not dissimilar to those that were used in Black Mesa back in the Pre-Days. It was a shame the institute had to be destroyed in the process of humans' transition: a lot of useful technology could have been salvaged from it, including the basis for the string-based entanglement teleporters. Still, a loss here, a gain there. It wouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

Having stared into the optical depths of the scanner for a couple of seconds, the man straightened up and watched the wooden door slide sideways bizarrely into the wall of the building. The street, lit up a vibrant acid green, was illuminated by a stream of light pouring limitlessly from the now open corridor. The man, after a quick glance around for observers, entered immediately, the soldier and his reluctant prisoner swiftly bringing up the rear, before the doorway was sealed one more with the quiet click of a latch, re-establishing the building's flawless illusion of utilitarianism.

For the next ten or so minutes, the street was silent. The moon, rising slowly higher, cast its impartial gaze continually over the scene. The bell tower was once more quiet. The light breeze stirred a couple of abandoned take-away boxed that tumbled, unloved and isolated, along the deserted road.

And then, all of a sudden, the drowsy air was pierced by an excruciating scream.

At once, all of the power to residential blocks twenty one, two and three was abruptly cut off and the area plunged into almost total darkness. The moon's glare, suddenly appearing much weaker than before, bathed the surroundings in enough light to distinguish building from building but scarcely anything more. Of course, this power cut meant that the reinforced door the man, soldier and prisoner had entered through was no longer securely locked and, taking advantage of this situation, the small silhouette of a citizen appeared at the entrance.

The figure fled before either the man or the soldier could do anything to stop it.


End file.
